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“Boat graveyard,” Jason replies.
We get out and follow Donovan around the side of the building. Sure enough, on the other side, it’s a boatyard.
If you’ve never seen a boat out of water, it’s a bizarre sight. Like a giant whale on display. There’s a huge metal frame on wheels at the edge of the water with a long double sling in it, which, I imagine, is how they scoop the boats onto dry land.
Donovan winds us through the yard with purpose and then comes to stop in front of one. “Check this one out,” he says.
The sailboat in question is hoisted up on these metal stands that do not look like it should be able to hold it up. The keel—which is boat-term for the big fin at the bottom of the boat, I’ve learned—makes it look twice as big. The sail is wrapped up in a shabby cloth, and the boat itself looks pretty beat-up. There are more than a couple of dents in it, holes in the sides, and damage to the windows.
It’s no surprise that it’s out of the water, getting repairs.
Sorry, she. Donovan corrected me about that once. All boats are shes.
“What happened to it?” I ask. I feel oddly sorry for the thing. It’s like witnessing a dog tied to a pole with a too-small collar. Neglect looks ugly, even if the item in question has no feelings.
Still. I may never be a skipper, but this summer has certainly taught me one thing: boats have souls. Even damaged ones like this.
Especially the damaged ones, if you ask me.
“It’s abandoned,” Donovan responds. “Come on.”
Then he grabs the ladder, which is at least a solid three feet off the ground, and hoists himself up.
“Wait…we’re going inside? This feels a little like breaking and entering.”
“You won’t get in trouble,” he reassures me. “I promise.”
I frown at the thin metal stand keeping the boat propped up. Logically, I know I’m not going to topple over a thirty-foot sailboat. But the nagging parts of my anxiety are dubious.
Jason helps me up the ladder, and Donovan helps me into the boat. But when I climb onto the landing, my Converses slip on the damp boards. Jason catches my arm, saving me from a tumble off the side of the boat and onto the gravel below. For a second, my body brushes against his, and I feel his hard-muscled chest underneath the thin layer of cotton.
“Careful, Trouble.” He grins at me.
“Thanks,” I reply, hating how breathless and girly my voice sounds.
We climb aboard, and Donovan pushes open the latch so we can go below deck. It’s dim inside, and I can only make out shadows and shapes.
“There’s no electricity,” Donovan explains, “but we’ve got this.”
He lights a match and, seconds later, ignites a brass gas lantern that hangs from the ceiling. Now, I can see the ship in all of its glory.
It’s old—that’s obvious. The walls are lined with wood, and there are patches where the wood has been punched out. It’s been mostly emptied out, nothing on the shelves but a couple of books. There are a couple of old-school touches—the gas lantern, navigation table with an old water-stained map on it, and some kind of compass that looks like it came from a different era. In short, everything that appeals to my anachronist heart. The upholstery looks newer than the rest of it, though, dark cushions that line the benches.
“Whose boat is this?” Jason asks.
Donovan sits down, and with a flick of his wrist, the match goes out. “Mine.”
“What?”
“It was abandoned on one of the mooring balls. The original owner was a patient at the medical center who took a turn for the worst. The family didn’t want it, so they handed it over to my dad. Dad said if I can patch up the holes and get it back into shape, I can have it.”
“So you’re going to…what. Sail the coast?”
“Maybe.”
“What about college?” Jason asks.
Donovan shrugs. “Scholarship money didn’t come through. So. I’ll just have to try next year.”
